I Think It's Time to Breath

Following the trail of billowing saris up and over the trash-strewn, impossibly rocky hill and then through the winding labyrinth of streets, my video camera records the faces peering out from windows, the smiles and the laughter of those whom we pass. Those initial looks of confusion and then the breaking of a smile upon realizing the camera is pointed at them, filming their responses. The shrieks of laughter from a boy getting tickled by his mother, the purity of a young girl’s smile as she plays with a baby kitten. Everyone knows each other, calling out hellos as children play makeshift cricket and badminton in the alleys. While this area is technically classified as a “slum”, it is far from Western perceptions about what a slum actually entails. Instead of derelict huts and rotting corpses, this “slum” represents more of a community than most of the Pune I have experienced thus far.

I have come to this area to film for my documentary film project, following the women through the streets, armed with my video camera and rudimentary Hindi, allowing them to take me where they please. She brings me into her modest home, adorned with lavender walls and spotless floors, and sits me down on a last-limb folding chair situated next to an old wire birdcage. Serving me scalding coffee (from which my tongue still burns) and then watching as I try and take chug-approaching sips to match her Olympic drinking rate.

This finally feels real. We do not understand each other, but at the same time we do. Language barriers surpassed, connected by a shared feeling, a shared basic humanity. After I finish my coffee she leads me over to sit on the chair in front of their Bollywood playing flat screen. The others in the family sit on the floor in a semi-circle around the chair, alternating between looking at the screen and my face.

It might finally be happening. Maybe my face has been relaxed by Indian suns, my smile lit by Maharashtrian fires. No longer a Western imperialist, I feel more like Diane Sawyer, but significantly more grungy. I have accepted that I will not be fully immersed in the culture, that I will always be seen first by my race. But maybe I can capitalize on that. Use my novelty to spark relationships. My outsider status to instigate conversations.

For these past couple of weeks I had begun to truly despise parts of India, essentially following verbatim the “Steps of Home Sickness” manual we were handed at the beginning of the program. I hated the looks I got walking down the street, finally caving by wrapping my head and shoulders in a long scarf when leaving the house in an attempt to self-protect against leering glances. I was perpetually cringing, swallowing down hatred and believing I would never understand so there was no point to even try. Taking rickshaws instead of walking to get from one place to the other as fast as possible. Constant tunnel visioning to prevent the seeing of the unpleasant, scarf to face to prevent the breathing in of the pollution, the smell of burning trash.

But then the other weekend when we were in Mahabaleshwar, hill station of the strawberries, it slowly began shifting. We ventured to a small, isolated Shiva temple on the side of a cliff overlooking the cascading hills and deep blue lake below, very Lords of the Rings-esque. Standing in front of the old stone temple, facing the cliff below, lifting my hands above my head, arching my back into the sun in a perfect post card posture. And breathing, really breathing in and out. Breathing in all the good and releasing the bad. It began to click. All that India has to offer, to teach, it was merely waiting for me to release my faulty expectations and actually act upon the pure basis of experience.

While I have less than a month to act on these new ideas, I have nothing to lose by trying.